


Heads

by azira-yeet (Judeyjude)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Other, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 09:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19354408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Judeyjude/pseuds/azira-yeet
Summary: When Crowley first started climbing through the window, Aziraphale pushed his bookcase aside to make it easier for Crowley to slip in unharmed. He pushed it back in place a week later after he saw Crowley poking at the fading bruise near his knee and frowning.Crowley is ridiculous like that. It’s on the list of things To Never Speak Of (number 108, to be exact; Aziraphale keeps a journal to remind himself). Sometimes it feels like a dream—the two of them. An absurd, feverish dream that they are frien—well, that they are two people who speak to each other. Aziraphale won’t admit it but he likes seeing that bruise on Crowley as much as Crowley seemingly loves having that bruise as proof that they’re not a dream.





	Heads

**Author's Note:**

> here's a one-shot based off of a terribly long good omens au my brain cooked up last night
> 
> my first crack at the ineffable husbands <3

“Oh, hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. He flips to the next page of his book, not hearing Crowley’s greeting. Absently, he says, “Hm?” **  
**

 

“I said  _thanks for the help_ ,” Crowley snaps. “When are you going to move the fucking bookcase out from under the window?”

 

Aziraphale glances up, savoring Crowley’s face scrunched up in irritation. He’s always loved Crowley’s grumpy faces best. Pulling himself up off the floor, Crowley collapses on Aziraphale’s bed and rubs at the spot under his knee that’s permanently bruised. When Crowley first started climbing through the window, Aziraphale pushed his bookcase aside to make it easier for Crowley to slip in. He pushed it back in place a week later after he saw Crowley poking at the fading bruise near his knee and frowning.

 

Crowley is ridiculous like that. It’s on the list of things To Never Speak Of (number 108, to be exact; he keeps a journal to remind himself). Sometimes it feels like a dream–the two of them. An absurd, feverish dream that they are frien _—_ well, that they are two people who speak to each other. Aziraphale won’t admit it but he likes seeing that bruise on Crowley as much as Crowley seemingly loves having that bruise as proof that they’re not a dream.

 

“I’ll move it next time,” Aziraphale lies as usual. Crowley half-heartedly grumbles as usual. “What do you need?”

 

“Do I have to need something in order to visit my favorite angel?”

 

Aziraphale sets his book down. “I am not changing my wallpaper.”

 

“I’m not asking you to, angel.”

 

Aziraphale huffs. It’s been six years and his not-friend hasn’t given up on making fun of his bedroom walls being covered in baby angels. It’s hideous but his mother decorated this room and it’s all he has of her. A touch irritable, he asks Crowley again about why he’s here.

 

“Groceries,” Crowley says. He smiles that smile that’s not a smile. “I only need one thing. Pinky swear I’ll cover whatever chore you want next.”

 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says and because Crowley knows him so well, his smile falters. Then his lips perk right back up with an extra effort to show  _this-really-is-a-smile-I-am-happy-and-carefree_. Aziraphale looks down at his book, feeling inexplicably guilty, and opens and closes its cover to stall. “I already went this morning.”

 

“I thought you shop Saturday afternoon,” Crowley says. They both know Aziraphale always shops Saturday afternoons. They’ve memorized each other’s schedules years ago.

 

“You say I should be more spontaneous,” Aziraphale jokes weakly. He doesn’t particularly want to explain how Father threw a fit this morning over Aziraphale having drunk the last of the milk last night.

 

Crowley grimaces but doesn’t respond, his eyes wandering to gaze out the window. Aziraphale watches him, the sharp lines of his profile, the peak of his overly large eyes that turn amber in sunlight. Crowley may act like he’s better than the world but he’s never a bully to innocent people. People tend to comment on Aziraphale’s “baby fat”, which, at fifteen-years-old, Aziraphale has happily accepted is just the way his body looks. Crowley’s never said anything about it, though he does tease Aziraphale for his untameable curls. Crowley understands what it’s like to be on the brunt of cruelty because he’s too much of the opposite–all sharp angles and thin lines. He’s doesn’t have much control over his long limbs and Aziraphale has heard cruel laughter echo down the school halls over Crowley’s bumping into lockers.

 

Aziraphale thinks Crowley has too much personality to fit inside his thin body and so it must come out in his movements and facial expressions.

 

Right now, Crowley’s left leg jiggles in impatience or nervousness. Aziraphale looks at the streaks of orange-red locks in his brown hair, highlighted by the window’s light. It’s quite pretty and Aziraphale can’t imagine why their peers find him unattractive just because he’s strikingly skinny. Then again, Aziraphale has never found anyone attractive, really, so who is he to know?

 

“What’s the face about?”

 

Aziraphale jolts out of his daze. “What?”

 

Crowley plants his elbow on his knee, stilling it, and props his chin up in his hand. Raising an eyebrow, he asks, “What are you thinking so hard about?”

 

Aziraphale finds himself saying, “Cake.” He clears his throat and fiddles with his book cover again. “Yes, well, I was thinking about how earlier the store had a cake display.”

 

Crowley’s lips twitch, no forced charm, just genuine amusement. “And?”

 

“Well. I didn’t buy it.”

 

Crowley puffs out a half-laugh. Aziraphale smiles a pleased little grin before remembering himself and glancing away.

 

“What did you want me to pick up for you?”

 

“Are really going to do me a favor as an excuse to get sweets?”

 

There’s a jar filled with cookies on the bedside table. “Yes,” Aziraphale says.

 

“How about we flip?” Crowley suggests, the nerves from earlier showing up as he taps his fingers along his chin.

 

Standing up from his armchair, Aziraphale walks past Crowley and opens his bedside drawer. He’s used to the tingly feeling of Crowley watching him, but it still feels strange every once and awhile. “What did you say you needed?”

 

After a small pause, Crowley admits, “Sunglasses. You know, the cheap kind right next to the register? Whatever black pair they have. It’s not a bid deal, honestly. I would pay you back, of course. If you go. And I’ll mow Shadwell’s lawn for you next weekend when I mow William’s.”

 

Aziraphale cuts off Crowley’s ramble, declaring, “Heads for going.”

 

“Yes, you are very spontaneous, angel,” Crowley says. There’s warmth in his drawling tone. The tension in the room deflates now that they’re back on the familiar ground of gently snide quips.

 

Normally _—_ ever since The Arrangement _—_ Crowley and Aziraphale take turns doing each other’s chores since they’re usually similar tasks. Aziraphale’s chores are responsibilities his family assumes of him while Crowley’s are always a form of punishment. This is one of the very few times Crowley is asking for something that has nothing to do with an actual chore. Aziraphale had seen one of Crowley’s rotten friends break Crowley’s sunglasses during lunch break on Friday. The same rotten friend has the bagging shift at the grocery shop on Saturdays.

 

Aziraphale picks up the quarter on the right side of his drawer. He’s tested this one more than a hundred times and, without fail, it lands on heads every single time no matter how you toss it. The quarter on the left side is 50/50. Aziraphale hands Crowley the quarter and watches him flip it.

 

The smile that lights up Crowley’s face is infinitely better than his amusing grumpy face. “Sorry, angel,” he says without a hint of apology, showing the quarter in his palm _—_ heads up.

 

_—_

 

Aziraphale doesn’t buy cake. He buys two pairs of sunglasses from the clothing shop down the street from the grocery store, using his allowance that he’d been saving up for buying a hardcover version of Alice in Wonderland. He scrapes off the price tags and carefully places them in the mailbox of the abandoned house between his home and Crowley’s. He writes on a sticky note,  _It was buy one get one free. Don’t forget to mow Shadwell’s lawn._ He hesitates a moment before adding a small smiley face.

**Author's Note:**

> you can reblog this [here](https://azira-yeet.tumblr.com/post/185833010931/heads) on tumblr
> 
> if you want to see good omen memes, meta, and fluff bits like this you can follow me @ [azira-yeet](https://azira-yeet.tumblr.com/)  
> ! : )


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